


Only Your Fool

by pandoras_chaos



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Drunk Sex, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, M/M, Missing Scene, Oral Sex, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 23:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1406431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandoras_chaos/pseuds/pandoras_chaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m not good at this, John,” Sherlock whines, and John feels his lips quirk up in an inappropriate smile. He knows there’s more to the statement that the surface value, but he’s starting to feel loose and happy again, and refuses to stir up any more unsuitable emotion tonight. Sherlock levels a bleary gaze at him, and the moment shifts; Sherlock acknowledging John’s decision and silently agreeing to play along. For now. “I don’t know how to be anyone’s best man. I barely succeed at being a <i>man</i> at all most days.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Your Fool

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my contribution to the Stag Night missing scene trope! It gets a little angsty towards the end there, but what can you do? Hat-tip intended towards [cumberbatchweb](http://www.benedictcumberbatch.co.uk/audio/neverwhere/neverwhere-episode-3-review/) for a particularly descriptive gem in regards to Mr Cumberbatch's incredible voice. Unbeta'ed and utterly raw (another of those lingering fics that's been taking up space on my g-drive), so any and all mistakes are all mine. 
> 
> Title borrowed from the delightful Norah Jones.

**Only Your Fool**

 

 

“You have done this before, right?” John asks, a bit late if he’s honest. He’s got two slick fingers buried knuckle deep in Sherlock’s tight arse, and his subconscious chooses now to alert him to the fact that they haven’t talked about this at all. In fact, this whole situation is spinning so quickly out of control, John doesn’t even know where to begin. His senses are still a little slow due to the alcohol swimming merrily in his veins and he’s not entirely sure how exactly they’d gotten from bundled on the foot of the stairs to naked and sprawled out across Sherlock’s bed.

Sherlock just smirks and arches his hips forward, his hot, slick passage gripping John’s fingers so tightly he feels what little blood remains in his brain relocate swiftly south.  John inches another finger in and watches in intense fascination as color rises up Sherlock’s pale chest and infuses his cheekbones. The noises rumbling out of his chest sound like a restless lion who has spent the last two years consuming nothing but whiskey and cigarettes, and the sound goes straight to John’s cock, his control slipping just a little bit further.

John angles his fingers up and brushes intently across Sherlock’s prostate. The effect is stunning: Sherlock’s head falls back, his elegant white neck arching as his impossible lips part, and he lets loose a groan so positively sinful John can’t wait any longer. He gently slides his fingers out and grabs at the lubricant on the bedside table, nearly knocking the lamp to the floor in his haste. He tries to ignore the incredible sight of Sherlock Holmes spread out and wanting like a veritable feast, but it’s a useless endeavor. Sherlock is watching him with admirable focus, especially given the sheer quantity of alcohol they’ve both consumed. John forces his eyes away and positions himself, nudging Sherlock’s knees wider before finally sinking into that tight heat.

Sherlock’s eyes are glassy and dark, his pupils blown wide and there’s a feral glint shining in them when they finally blink into focus. John loses himself in the feeling, Sherlock’s body tightly squeezing around his cock and making his head swim with want. Sherlock’s incredibly long legs wrap snugly around John’s hips and he feels one of Sherlock’s bony heels dig painfully against his iliac crest, urging him on harder, faster, _more_.

John scrambles to comply, snapping his hips forward in a harsh rhythm, but it’s evidently not enough. Sherlock growls and moves so quickly, John is stunned to find himself flat on his back in the middle of the bed, Sherlock climbing back over his thighs, holding John’s cock in place and sinking down onto it. John has no choice but to clutch Sherlock’s hips and hold on as Sherlock begins rocking his arse in tight circles, his head falling back, an errant bead of sweat rolling slowly down his neck to catch against his collarbone.

 _Christ_ , he is so hot and so tight, and John feels his head spinning with sensation. Sex has never felt like this, and the obscene slide of it makes something dark and primal rise up in John’s gut. He reaches forward and skims his hand up Sherlock’s side, fingers tripping over prominent ribs and wiry muscle until he can grip harshly at Sherlock’s shoulder and yank him down towards his mouth. John’s aim is a little off, but he manages to catch his teeth on Sherlock’s absurd lower lip and pull, and the noise that comes out of Sherlock’s throat is guttural and filthy, and John needs more.

Sherlock’s arms seem to tremble slightly and he tilts dangerously forward, John’s cock seeming to be the only thing keeping him solidly in place. John pushes up and over, gravity helping as he knocks Sherlock back onto the mattress. Sherlock blinks up at him, shocked for a full second before his gaze narrows and his grin sharpens. John takes the challenge and chases him down, plunging his cock back into that tight heat with a single brutal thrust that has Sherlock arching and bucking into him. John growls and lunges forward, capturing that toxic smile against his own lips, tongue pushing past teeth and demanding compliance.

Sherlock makes a tiny whimpering noise and John feels his pulse quicken further, sucking Sherlock’s tongue into his mouth and biting down probably too hard. Sherlock gasps and writhes, shoving up into each rough thrust, taking John’s cock so beautifully it feels as though he was made for it. John’s chest constricts around the thought and the momentary pause is all Sherlock needs to regain the upper hand.

He twists suddenly and John feels the world tilt again, pain searing through his left shoulder as Sherlock deliberately slams into it, pressing his advantage and climbing back over him in one quick maneuver that leaves John helplessly grasping for control. Sherlock’s eyes are fierce and triumphant as he sinks back down onto John’s cock, his body seeming to coil even more as he nears his own climax.

Sherlock rides him hard, John struggling against the mattress until he finally gets his feet planted on the bed, using the leverage to slam his hips up as Sherlock pushes down. He deftly picks up the pace, fucking up into Sherlock with increasing brutality, the muffled grunts and slapping noises as their thighs collide echoing through the stifling room. Sherlock moans and pushes down harder, hips undulating in a way that’s far too sexual to be mistaken for inexperience. John has the fleeting thought of asking Sherlock about his first time, but Sherlock’s fingers are clawing at the flesh of his shoulders, the desperation and heat overpowering everything else and turning his brain into soup.

“John,” Sherlock pants, and his head falls back on a long groan as John angles his hips up a little bit more and brushes against Sherlock’s prostate. The position is too uncomfortable to hold for a long period of time, but John is aware they’re both teetering on the edge already. Sherlock leans back farther, propping himself up on two sinewy arms behind him and creating a long, gorgeous line up his torso. John feels his teeth clench as he tries to hold on to the momentum, but it’s a losing battle.

His hips arch up at an impossible angle and he is coming thick and fast, stilling for one moment before pumping a few more times, gravity pulling a slick mixture of semen and lube down the length of his cock and into his pubic hair. Sherlock growls and sits up on shaky thighs, his right hand coming forward to close around his own painfully hard cock.

John doesn’t even have time to think before his body instinctively reacts, shoving Sherlock onto his side and crawling down his body to suck down as much of Sherlock’s prick as he can. Sherlock howls and bucks forward, and John pulls back a fraction, gagging a little as Sherlock’s cock hits the back of his throat. He finds he can fit most of it in if he keeps his hand closed around the base and goes about inexpertly bobbing his head, trying to keep his teeth covered and the suction strong.

The first burst of come hits the back of his tongue and John gags again, pulling off on instinct with an undignified, wet sounding cough, and nearly catching the second spurt in the eye. He huffs a little, part of him disgusted, but mostly riveted, and he keeps his hand pumping, working Sherlock through his orgasm as he slowly melts backward into the mattress, flushed and devastatingly beautiful.

John watches avidly as the last twitches of orgasm ripple through Sherlock’s long frame before pulling his hand back and wiping it on the sheets. He ruefully reaches up and swipes at his face as well, glaring a little at Sherlock’s breathless, genuine laugh.

“Sorry,” Sherlock says around a wide, blissed out smile that completely denies any kind of apology.

“No you’re not,” John huffs back, still scrubbing at his cheekbone with a corner of the sheet, Sherlock’s chuckle following him down as he finally heaves himself up the bed and collapses next to the man.

“Christ,” John pants, his breath still stuttering in labored, begrudgingly amused hiccups. He can practically hear Sherlock smirk next to him, positively radiating smug self-satisfaction and contentment.

“That,” Sherlock purrs, his voice sounding like a distant thunderstorm: all crackling energy and rumbling heat, “has been quite a long time coming.”

John turns his head to the side, dragging his eyes along Sherlock’s profile in the pale evening light. He looks relaxed and content, and completely shagged out if John’s being blunt. There’s a curious upward tilt to his lips that makes John pause, his heart pounding suddenly far more violently than it has any right.

“You—” John starts, unable and unwilling to finish his thought. He changes track abruptly: “How long has it been for you, then?”

Sherlock lets out a long breath, blowing up into his sweaty curls and making them dance along his high forehead. He scratches absently at the drying come on his abdomen, his brow furrowed in concentration for a moment before he says, “Roughly nine years in broad terms. Eight years, eleven months and fourteen days, if you’re looking for specifics.”

John gapes at him. “Oh. I thought, maybe… Irene,” he says lamely, his face flaming with embarrassed humiliation and something darker, more possessive. Sherlock snorts and stretches his long arms up to the headboard, back bowing in a gorgeous arc of casual sensuality as his muscles flex and his back pops.  He holds there for a beat longer than necessary before folding back in on himself, rolling close, slotting his body easily against John’s side and nuzzling into his armpit.

“She’s hardly my type, John,” Sherlock rumbles into the sensitive skin along John’s ribs. It tickles a bit, and John squirms, but there’s a niggling annoyance at the back of his consciousness that’s not allowing him to drop this.

“Well, how the hell was I supposed to know that?” he demands, perhaps a touch harsher than he intended. The seed of jealous possessiveness that started up in the pit of his stomach years and years ago at the sight of her wearing Sherlock’s _dressing gown_ for Christ’s sake is blossoming hotly in his gut. John hadn’t even realized it was still bothering him, and yet here he is: demanding and flushed and wanting so desperately to erase the memory of the way she’d flirted and insinuated and forced John to recognize his own fruitless feelings.

Sherlock props himself up on his elbow and stares down at John with his usual searching focus. His eyes narrow briefly before he shakes his head in apparent dismissal. John feels the flush darkening along his cheekbones; anger and resentment and jealousy warring for dominance.

“John,” Sherlock says, placatory and slow, as though he’s afraid John is going to bolt out of his bed the second he says something wrong. It’s tentative and cautious and so far from Sherlock’s usual abrasive arrogance that John feels his chest clench tightly around a swift wave of empathy. “Surely you realize…” Sherlock trails off, and John’s alarm ratchets up another notch.  Sherlock’s left hand smoothes down John’s abdomen, the touch heated and demanding, and John suddenly feels owned in a way he’s never physically felt before.

“She could never hold my interest,” Sherlock says softly, hiding his face in the crook of John’s neck and breathing deliberately slowly, his hand flexing momentarily against the indent of John’s hip. “Nobody ever could once you came along.”

John feels suddenly sick; the overwhelming happiness expanding in his chest fighting against the hot wave of guilt surging through his gut. He hadn’t known. He’d never _known_ , and now he’s about to get married and leave this broken, vulnerable, absolutely wonderful man behind, and Jesus _Christ_. _Mary_.

“Shit,” John mutters. He doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until he registers the utter stillness of the man laying half on top of him. Sherlock’s muscles have all tensed up, his hand freezing against John’s side and his breath stopping completely. John begins to panic, heart rate skyrocketing as the consequences of the past hour spiral dangerously out of control in his brain.

“Don’t, John,” Sherlock says stiffly. He’s still sprawled across John’s abdomen, drying come cooling and congealing between them as time seems to stall out to a sudden, devastating crawl. They lie there for a few more minutes, the silence between them becoming tense and strained until Sherlock finally heaves a gigantic breath and rolls to the side, dislodging John’s limbs in one gravity-tilting pull.

John stares blankly at the ceiling, trying to ignore the sounds of Sherlock dressing in a hurry and wishing he could blame the alcohol for this monumental cock-up, but he knows it is entirely his fault. He feels completely sober now, and a small part of him desperately wishes he could just get completely pissed and forget all about tonight’s many indiscretions, but he knows it’s a useless prospect. He will never forget the feeling of Sherlock beneath him, on top of him, surrounding him with all that glorious pale skin and achingly tight heat. He’ll never forget the way Sherlock breathed his name as he came: soft and beautiful and reverent. He can’t possibly forget the feeling of finality and inevitability that had cloaked him like a warm blanket when Sherlock finally leaned in to kiss him against the wall of the kitchen, all of his many defenses down, looking vulnerable and lost and achingly young.

No, John will never forget _finally_ having Sherlock, and losing him all over again.

Sighing deeply, John swings his legs over the side of the bed, grabbing at his discarded vest and wiping his groin clean of as much of the come and lube as he can. His head is suddenly pounding, and he knows this is the moment he makes a very important life decision. Reaching for his pants, he tugs them on along with his slightly rumpled trousers, dressing himself slowly and carefully, and giving himself a little extra time to steel himself.

He steps carefully into the kitchen, not bothering with his shoes, his socked feet sliding along the smooth linoleum. Sherlock is leaning back against the worktop, an open bottle of whiskey in his hand, his eyes focused carefully on the surface of the kitchen table. He’s dressed himself as well, right down to the not-so-crisp-anymore jacket. It looks like armor, and John feels his chest constrict again. He stands awkwardly in the doorway, hands in his pockets, and as he watches, Sherlock brings the bottle directly up to his lips and takes a deep pull.

“You should really put that in a glass, you know,” John says softly, hating the way his voice is wavering with unspoken emotion.

Sherlock snorts a humorless laugh and wipes at the stray drops with the back of his hand. His eyes are entirely focused, however, when he fixes his relentless attention on John. He silently holds the bottle out to him, and John moves further into the room to grasp at the cool glass, holding Sherlock’s gaze as he tips the bottle back and swallows far more than he probably should. He shudders as it burns down his throat, the whiskey curling hot and full in his gut.

John hands the bottle back to Sherlock and moves past him to grab at two tumblers from the cabinet, trying desperately not to notice the way Sherlock’s eyes seem to burn twin holes into the back of his skull. The wave of lately familiar despair washes over him and he takes a deep breath to try and calm himself. He feels Sherlock shift next to him, coming to stand far too close in the confined space. John is hyper aware of Sherlock hovering just behind him, the heat and presence of him radiating through their collective clothing and setting up camp somewhere behind John’s ribs.  

John is aware of movement in his peripheral vision and suddenly the bottle is sliding suggestively into his palm; Sherlock’s long arm rising to the cabinet, pulling down two tumblers and placing them delicately on the worktop in front of John, flattening his hand next to them and leaning in just a little bit further. John feels his shoulders lose some of their tension, his body melting backwards even as his mind tries to override sensation. He can feel Sherlock’s warm breath on the back of his neck, stirring the small hairs behind his ear and causing a shiver of pure want to travel abruptly down his spine.

John can feel the whisky beginning to take effect; his movements seeming slow and labored, his head returning to its pleasantly fuzzy state. Neither of them seems particularly inclined to move, and John carefully sets the whiskey on the counter next to the glasses, spreading his own hands across the worn surface and trying valiantly not to notice the way Sherlock’s body seems to sway into his on every stuttered inhale.

“Come, John.” Sherlock’s rumbling voice seems to caress John’s ear as he speaks, and John hears his own breath hitch, memories of Sherlock’s voice broken and gasping running circles in his brain. John’s fingers flex against the worktop and he takes a miniscule step backwards, humming lowly as the movement presses him into Sherlock’s front from arse to shoulders. Sherlock’s hand on the worktop tightens into a shaky fist and his other hand reaches forward to brace against the edge, effectively caging John in, and he slowly rolls his body forward. John hears his own soft whine as though from a great distance. Sherlock dips his head forward and gently brushes his lips across the nape of John’s neck, so soft John is half convinced he imagined it.

As quickly as it began the moment shatters, Sherlock pulling sharply away and spinning off to the sitting room, bottle of whiskey swinging precariously from his long fingertips. John lets out a shaky exhale and closes the cabinet door with a soft click. He can feel the recent memories trying to surface: the sound of Sherlock moaning his name as he fucked himself down onto John’s fingers, the taste of Sherlock’s skin as John licked away perspiration and pheromones, the way he’d clung to John afterwards like a drowning man on a raft. John feels his heart begin to speed again, blood flowing dangerously south with each new recollection. Pride wars with possessiveness for dominance, and John’s head spins with the desire for more. The momentary thrill of satisfaction is short lived, however, and John feels the weight of the evening pressing down on him again. He braces his hands on the edge of the worktop and drops his head forward, feeling all the tension and echoing sadness rocket through him with uncomfortable clarity.

“What do we do now?” John asks, his voice sounding hollow and resigned even to his own ears.

“We drink, John,” Sherlock replies from the sitting room. John shifts his gaze over to the man and finds him reclining loosely against the back of his leather armchair, movements languid and drunk again, though his eyes are still calculating and undeniably sharp.

John sighs again and grabs the tumblers, tugging the bottle out of Sherlock’s grip and pouring each of them a generous amount before sinking back into his own armchair. He sucks down his entire measure in one long swallow and reaches for the bottle again, avoiding Sherlock’s knowing smirk as he refills his glass. They sit there in strained silence for a while, the alcohol beginning to buzz through John’s veins again with every burning gulp. Sherlock refills his own glass twice more before he sighs dramatically and seems to melt into his chair.

“I’m not good at this, John,” he whines, and John feels his lips quirk up in an inappropriate smile. He knows there’s more to the statement that the surface value, but he’s starting to feel loose and happy again, and refuses to stir up any more unsuitable emotion tonight. Sherlock levels a bleary gaze at him, and the moment shifts; Sherlock acknowledging John’s decision and silently agreeing to play along. For now. “I don’t know how to be anyone’s best man. I barely succeed at being a _man_ at all most days.”

John snorts into his glass, the statement so utterly absurd that he cannot help but laugh. “Sherlock, you’re the best man I’ve ever known,” he says instead, the residual tension seeming to ease as the whiskey thrums through his system. Sherlock shoots him a shy smile that’s utterly disarming, and John feels his face heat with a mixture of embarrassment and arousal. They need something to ease the tension, or else John is going to end up fucking Sherlock again over this very armchair, and he doesn’t think he’s quite ready to deal with another guilt-ridden breakdown tonight.

“Look,” he says firmly, sitting up and immediately faltering. The room seems to spin dangerously for a minute, and he suddenly realizes that more than half the whiskey seems to be gone already. Shaking his head, John continues: “Why don’t we play a game or something?”

Sherlock’s eyes light up, and he flicks his gaze towards the mantle, but John cuts him off before he can even open his mouth. “ _Not_ Cluedo.” Sherlock’s face falls comically, and he slumps back into his seat with a petulant expression that John finds far too endearing.

“You pick something then,” Sherlock grumbles and knocks back the remainder of his whiskey, swinging his arm in the general direction of the bottle at John’s feet. John nudges it over with his foot and tries not to shiver when Sherlock steadies himself with a hand on John’s thigh. It’s becoming far too difficult to think, and John shakes his head back and forth a little, enjoying the way the lights seem to dance and sway with every movement.

Sherlock is watching him with fond affection, and John wants nothing more than to lean forward and capture his full lips in another kiss. He can vaguely recall the way they tasted against his tongue, and he barely tamps back the instinct to climb into Sherlock’s lap and demand something _more._

Sherlock studies the contents of his own glass, swirling the liquid around and bringing it up to the light. “Christ, I would literally kill for a smoke right now,” he mumbles forlornly, and John shakes his head with familiar wry exasperation.

“You quit two months ago, and you’re doing well. Don’t ruin it over one stupid night of drunken debauchery.”

“Is that what this is then?” Sherlock asks, and his voice is suddenly soft and much steadier than it has any right to be. “‘Drunken debauchery’?”

John licks his lips and tries really hard not to stare at Sherlock’s open shirt collar, his pale throat gleaming with residual sweat and post-coital endorphins. He _wants_ so badly, and he feels his chest clench against the tide of unwelcome feelings. John is startled to realize that he could actually use with a dose of strong nicotine himself, and tries to ignore the way his fingers seem to be twitching against his own knees with the effort of not reaching for Sherlock.

Sherlock’s unnerving gaze is almost a physical caress, and John swallows audibly around the swell of words he refuses to say. He’s accidentally gotten much drunker than he intended, and he needs something— _anything_ — to fully dissipate the remaining fog of pheromones and unwise thoughts. If only they had a case or something to focus on…

“We can’t keep doing this, John,” Sherlock murmurs, his eyes blinking slowly as he sags into his seat. John closes his eyes and tries to hold on to the happy feeling of alcoholic stupor, but he can feel the creeping depression seeping up to take him under.

“We’re not talking about it tonight,” he says firmly, dragging his tumbler to his lips and tipping back the contents in one. The alcohol goes down much more smoothly than it should, and he briefly wonders if he should get up for some water.

Sherlock makes a huffing sound across from him and John blinks his eyes open to watch as Sherlock downs the rest of his drink as well and reaches again for the bottle. He looks so achingly young and loose: unlike any form of Sherlock John’s ever seen, and he feels all of the melancholy sadness seep from him by degrees. He loves Sherlock, and he’s fairly certain it isn’t entirely unrequited. In the morning, he’ll deal with his inevitable meltdown, but for now, he’s content and happy with the lingering taste of Sherlock on his lips and the remembered heat of his body wrapped so tightly around John. For now, John has this and nothing else matters but this man in this room on this night, together.

Suddenly, an idea strikes him. “Do you have any Rizla papers?”

  


_Did the clown_  
 _Make you smile_  
 _He was only your fool for a while_  
 _Now he's gone back home_  
 _And left you wandering there_  
 _Is it lonely? Lonely_  
 _Lonely_

_~Carnival Town, Norah Jones_


End file.
